


I Am the Resurrection

by Boyd



Category: Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds (Band), Oasis (Band)
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 05:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19419658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boyd/pseuds/Boyd
Summary: Versionist: Kerime. Thank you so fucking muchAll comments are welcome.





	I Am the Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> Your face it has no place
> 
> No room for you inside my house

Maybe it is the most terrible timing for you to show up but after all how were you supposed to know when was the right one? He has not called for a couple of months and never he texted you back.

You are wandering about the pavement, it’s May and the night is beautiful, boats are waving gently near the bank, while roses are hanging their heads heavily down the water. 

Lingering around, you sit down on a bench and light up a cig so random people rarely passing by wouldn’t think that an eighteen year old lad is just knocking around aimlessly. Almost eighteen year old. You only take a drag on your cigarette once or twice letting it slowly burn out. You actually could have hung out with the mates, cause it’s Friday night and all or DMed that bird on Instagram, sent her some hearts like you used to do. 

You have to get up thou a little weak in the knees, and you’re giggling. There’s a light on in the living room, and it’s for the first time since your latest visit, that was in January. You can see right through those windows. There was no living soul in the house the last time you were here, but it didn’t stop you from dragging in anyway. It is definitely not the courage that makes you ring the doorbell at his gates, you’re kind of numb. Well, it’s a little late for you to realize that anyone could open the door. And then you’re hearing all those sounds of the door opening and laughing voices after that everything’s going silent but the footsteps and him clearing his throat before facing you. He is all glowing with pleasure until his eyes meet yours, he gives you a slight grimace, you see the look of contempt on his face and you’re completely taken aback: it’s not the way people usually looking at you. 

“You’re out of your mind!”

He pulls you away to the alley between his house and the neighbor’s. His voice goes soft as he speaks up to you again. 

“Is everything all right? At home?”

You’re shaking your head with a smile on your lips, never even looking up at him, although you better be doing that. You better be watching him properly for all those months yet to come. 

You think that, he is going to change next time you meet: visionary, that is hard to catch with your eyes, just a second and it’s irrevocably gone and he’s different… But it’s not happening, not when it’s come to him. He’s looking better and better from one time to the next. And today again he’s stunning in that black pullover of his. You feel like you’re suffocating. Open your mouth to say him what?

“I’ll call you a cab.” 

He also adds that nickname in the end. Well he shouldn’t have done that. 

“Please, don’t. ”

Pulling your hood on you’re ready to go, but he grabs you by the elbow, not letting you, the stare on his face sends shivers down your spine. His guests or his wife are going to notice his long absence, his children might slip out in the yard, and Lord knows what else could happen. At the end all the things become unbearable for you. You hope that, the gaze you throw at him isn’t full of sorrow. 

“I need to go.”

You feel much older than your age. There aren’t the words you say spending this whole year clinging to the vague hope. At half-past midnight you get the text from an unknown number. 

And it goes: “Don’t waste your time.”

*** 

He is teasing you with a strawberry just before eating it himself. The sun shows no mercy, so you cannot eat a thing but berries. And sip some champagne. You can mix up an easy cocktail later, beside that bottle of Bellini you’ve seen in the fridge. You turned 18 today, it’s 2 of July. You’re not sure whether he knows. It’s all there on the Internet, if only he had intention to do a little search. You’re not going to tell him, feeling like it’s not fair somehow. 

Another time a strawberry appears in front of your nose you grab his wrist to eat it up as your tongue trails all over his fingers. 

*** 

You’re walking down High Street in Hampstead and it’s Saturday. The air is hot again. If anyone of your friends were around you would pour some water on your head, but when you’re all by yourself you’re going to look like you’re mad. You can sit on Thameslink and go to the sea, maybe even to Brighton. When you reach the station you watch a guy buying a ticket. A tiny shop in the railway sells water and newspapers. You lean on the railing to have a look down there. 

*** 

It’s evening and you’re watching Gogglebox, the discussion covers some ancient fishes that are on the endangered species list. You’re flipping through the photos on your phone just to kill the time. Oddly enough most of them are related to him. This one was taken at the gig last spring. You’re in Stone Island parka, with your nose in the phone half of the time. Lennon’s by your side, drinking his beer. You’re texting, and you do remember who were you texting to. Lennon said it was a bad idea, but he didn’t know all the details. The key detail, you would say. 

Another one from the pub, you’re out with Jude. You’re holding a glass of beer in your hand, and you’d got a hickey on your neck. This is all his doing. 

*** 

“Do I get a kiss or not?’

You laugh as you shaking your head in “no” but sit on his lap anyway. You’re feeling his cheek with your fingertips while his lips on your neck. 

You only wish you weren’t dwelling on the thoughts too much. Because you can’t help thinking all of this has happened before. Isn’t that his concern? And why do you care so much? You are not going to deal with it. His belt buckle tinkles and your track pants hit the floor. 

You love everything about him: his stiff hair almost silver from graying, his nose, his neck, his pure bright eyes, and his hands, of course. You love his hands most of all. You put your head on his shoulder. He smells divine. 

*** 

Perhaps this happens to everyone at least once in a lifetime. Lasts for a couple of years. Two years of torture? That’s nothing! It comes and goes and you move on as if nothing ever happened. Just a period of time in your life, that you look back on and shiver in embarrassment.  
You stop to tie your shoe when that very song starts playing in the headphones. You’ve been thinking about it. What if you have no right to listen to it? It belongs to him. The song for two years of waiting. 

*** 

A few missed calls are probably the best sign of affection. 

It’s four in the morning but the sun is almost coming up, the day is going to be really warm so you put that bucket hat on. There’s an unread text message on your phone. You want to tell him that he wastes his words and you don’t need anything from him. Down, down, you’re going down the street. You’re going to the end of the world. 

He is in love with you, you swear.


End file.
